Blood Soaked Hands
by samybear
Summary: There's something not quite right with the scene, nor the witness but Harry can't get past her eyes while Ron and Hermione Deal with love and marriage and all the stress it brings
1. Oh Very Young

A/N: The chapter title is a song by Cat Stevens, a very great singer/song writer. I'm Not entirely thrilled by my title … but it will eventually make sense. I don't own anything!

He was soaking wet, the ministry regulation cloak had kicked the can ten seconds into the torrential down pour that was March in London. Harry had expected as much, but the foreknowledge did not lessen his discomfort. It was hard to feel anything but antipathy for Kingsley Shaklebolt and anything to do with the Aurory, or even the Ministry right now. It was nine o'clock on his one weekend off this month, Ron's first weekend home in the same amount of time and Hermione had cooked; a rare occasion, but very much worth the wait. Not that any of it would matter to Shaklebolt, and Harry wouldn't even bother to mention it.

The pitch dark around him only heightened the surrealism of the illuminated scene before him. A sense of déjà vu washed over Harry as he surveyed the smoking remains of a house. The gardens and cars parked out front were totally intact, but the house had been reduced to a literal pile of rubble. The only thing missing was a Dark Mark lighting up the night sky – now he understood.

Harry's supposedly repellent cloak blended him seamlessly into the equally soaked and miserable crowd of Aurores, Hit-wizards, Obliviators, and Medi-wizards. He'd always enjoyed the sensation of facelessness a crime scene gave him. For a few moments he was just another cog in the wheel, no one singled him out, or expected him to have all the answers – for a few, priceless moments. Clearing his mind for what was starting to look like a long night, Harry scanned the crowd for Kingsley. The impressive man was hard to miss, standing head and shoulders over everyone -- save Ron and Dumbledor – it took half the time as the search for an ordinary Auror would take. The Obliviators were frantically trying to keep the scene clear of muggles, while the Hit-wizards and Aurors scanned the remains. A group of medi-wizards were standing guard over the victims' remains; the group who managed to hold Harry's attention was comprised of two medi-wizards, and Obliviator, Shaklebolt and a very wet, very pale little girl. Or what Harry thought was a little girl – upon closer inspection she was a bruised, frightened and young, woman. Her hair hung in a tangled mat past her shoulders, a borrowed cloak covering her violently shaking form, and her face was white in the places it wasn't purple. What was left of her clothing was soaked in blood and the rivulets running down her arms streaked a rusty red. Kingsley seemed to be listening to an account from the medi-wizard while the Obliviator looked on with badly concealed impatience. 

"The earliest scans showed a use of the _imperius_ curse on her, and a very mild _crutio_ – she wouldn't have with stood anything stronger. That –"

"Kinsley, you summoned." Harry watched with amusement as the collective, including the muggle turned to glare at him.

"Potter, this, as you can see is a very serious problem we have on our hands tonight. Healer Girard here was just telling me which unforgivables and other curses had been used on our surviving victim, Miss Nigella Whiton." The girl cringed at the sound of her name.

"Look, Sir, I've asked you about four times to please call me Ella. I really don't want to ask you again." Shaklebolt ignored her; Harry however found the girl's gumption startling given the circumstances. The stoic Auror simply turned to look at the remains of the house, and Harry silently followed him. The two Aurors had fought side by side for over fifteen years, long before Harry was even an Auror. That leant them an uncanny sense about the other, and a deep respect which was reciprocal. Harry knew Kingsley must be thinking the scene was far too familiar – the old Auror had seen it often enough.

"I know, Shaklebolt, I know." Harry sensed, rather than saw his partner shrug -- an uncomfortably inelegant gesture. "I want to talk to the girl."

"Yes, so do I, but the damn Healer says she's too weak from shock. Not to my eyes she isn't! I've never seen a victim, muggle or magical as calm as this one after an attack as violent as this, not in all my years as an Auror." Kingsley rounded, staring at the bedraggled girl shrewdly.

"You think she was involved?" Harry found the scepticism hard to conceal as he regarded their young victim as well. She was definitely a muggle, not even a Squib. And she was a tiny thing, no more than five foot two and as soaking as she was now she couldn't weigh six stone. Not to mention very few people hung around when they planned to harm relatives, they often claimed accidental death, not murder, after torture.

"No I don't think she was involved. It's just damned unnerving that she's alive in the first place, that she can speak, argue with me even, and it's just really unsettling."  

"I'm going to talk to her." The only useful trait of being Harry Potter: The-boy-who-lived-again was that people never questioned his authority. "Excuse me Healer Girard but it is urgent that I speak to Miss Whiton immediately. We need to question her before she is given anything which might alter her memory, or her body finally reacts to what she has seen and we have to resort to magical means. It would - if I am correct - be best not to force anymore magic on her already weakened body?" Harry kept his tone neutral, trying as simply as he could to explain his point to the healer as best he could.

"Fine," the wizard sighed in resignation. "You have five minutes to ask her questions at which point the port key to St.Mungo's will activate." Harry smiled appreciatively.

"Won't be a problem," he focused his attention on the young woman in front of him. "Miss Whiton –"

"Ella, please call me Ella." The girl's voice was all but a rasp, something he hadn't noticed in her out burst at Kingsley.

"Ella, will you tell me about the attack on your house?"

"The Doctor already knows what happened."

"Has he asked you any questions?"

"No, but he waved a stick at me and proceeded to tell your partner a bunch of rubbish about what happened," Harry was used to disbelief from muggles, even fear. Some how this girl didn't seem to disbelieve or be afraid so much as simply want to be difficult.

"You don't believe the attackers used curses on you?"

"If that's what you people call it, yes they did seem to have power over us."

"Us?"

"My family and I. My Mother and Rachelle they just dropped to the floor … both were cold as stone. Daddy and Lauren … they went with two of the men. The other two stayed with me … I … They …" Her raspy voice seemed to grow even smaller, younger sounding as the story died on her lips. She was shaking violently, as though she'd been recently hit with a jelly-legs hex. Harry was about to ask her to continue when her voice seemed to return, the same strong, confidant voice with which she had addressed Kingsley. "They did something to me, I'm not really sure what it was, but one of the men said something and my whole body felt like it was on fire. I don't think I've ever screamed like I did then." Her voice faltered a bit and she broke eye contact, her knuckles whitening on the cloaks hem. "The, they … they took turns touching me. One of them even … he … he r-raped me." That wasn't the end of it, but Harry felt that was enough for now.

"Thank you Ella."

"For what; watching strangers kill my family?"

"For being brave enough to tell me as much as you did, it's very difficult to rehash painful memories." That was Harry's understatement of the century, and Ella's face said as much.

"What are you people?" She looked up at Harry, catching his eye and searching for some sort of answer. He felt as though she were reading his soul.

"Enough," the Healer bustled into their conversation, breaking eye contact between Harry and the muggle girl. He had been oddly transfixed by those eyes, a clear turquoise in colour; they seemed too old for such a young girl. It was as though she'd seen more in her short lifetime to do with pain and suffering than he had, even after a life such as his.

He'd seen eyes like that before. He knew those eyes better than he knew his own bottle green pair. It was highly unlikely that a twenty-five year old muggle had experienced anything close to the death toll of the second war, nor had she known the guilt of knowing the people died due to your existence, that the people you loved were dropping like flies in an effort to protect you. Harry was an adult now, he had long ago come to the conclusion that none of what had happened was his fault, and that people weren't dying for him, they were dying for freedom, a way of life he hadn't been able to comprehend was slipping away before their eyes. So many of the people fighting knew what was at stake in a way he still didn't. Only Ginny had died, actually, physically defending him, and he would never forgive himself for that.

Harry made a split second decision, "I'm coming with you to St. Mungo's and I'll do the Obliviation." His plan wasn't exactly ethical, but it was the best he could come up with. Shaklebolt raised his brows at Harry, but remained silent.

"Auror Potter that is what Obliviators are for!" A young witch who would have been pretty if it weren't for the icy blue tinge to her lips protested.

"Yes, I am well aware of the procedure. However I need more information from her before she can be Obliviated, which means she cannot receive the procedure until after the Healers clear her." It was unbearable sometimes, the idiocy of the Ministry bureaucracy. You couldn't step on any other department's toes without a fight, no matter how important or logical your reasoning. Not to mention that the bloody pureblood over there thought she would be able to come up with a reasonable answer as to whom 'they' were, and what had happened.

"I do wish you people would stop talking about me as though I can't hear your every word. It would also be nice if you would tell me what this procedure you're all talking about is, and why exactly you plan to wipe my memory?" Harry turned back to the muggle girl; she had obviously regained her composure. It was disturbing – to say the least – the way she kept switching personalities.

"I would like to be in a position where I could explain –" Harry began.

"Oh I'm very sure you would, however I don't fancy having my memory wiped by either of you people so you can put a stop to that non-sense this instance!" She looked spitting mad and ready to mutiny any moment now.

"Alright I'm calling rank on all of you," Shaklebolt saw the same look Harry had and felt it prudent to step in and save his witness.

"About bloody time," Ella's words echoed Harry's thoughts so exactly he wondered briefly if maybe she wasn't magical.

"She will go to St. Mungo's for treatment, after which Auror Potter and I will deal with her memories. The Obliviators are better put to use here any way." The finality with which Kingsley spoke was enough to put everyone back on course. Within moments the Medi-wizard was prepping Ella for her journey to the hospital as they all gathered around a tyre iron he had pulled from his medical sack. The familiar tugging sensation and Harry was spinning towards the hospital, and so much more.


	2. Lady D'Arbbanville

A/N: This chapter title belongs to Cat Stevens, and this song is heartbreakingly beautiful. Standard disclaimer of I don't own anything Harry Potter related!

                        Lady D'Abbanville

It was eerie, sitting in the tiny, silent room with an unconscious girl. St. Mungo's lacked the comfortable buzz of monitors which frequented muggle hospitals. The silence was broken only by the steady breathing of the room's two occupants. To any prying eyes the room would appear mostly normal, if a bit sad. A young woman lay in the bed, her face puffy from a recent beating and a man, older than she sat beside her starring sadly down at her as though he were lost in memories.

In a way he was lost in memories, but they hadn't been entirely his – they belonged to the girl in the hospital bed. The memories currently sat a pensive, filtered from the girl through Harry himself. It had been an exhausting two hours as he siphoned through her mind, locating her memories of that night. Harry felt slightly sick, reliving the night from her point of view. He had watched her mother drop from a simple _Avada__ Kedavera_ and her sister in-law. He'd relived the brutal beating, the _Cruiatus_curse, and the deeply disturbing rape.

That was not all he had witnessed in the girl's mind. She was a very brave soul, much more than her tiny, refined appearance suggested. Harry was discovering that no matter what society preached prestige did not always create the safe haven it was hailed for. No amount of money or privilege could protect a child from the world's evils. Hogwarts had not succeeded, nor did it seem had Nigella Whiton's tony muggle schools.

The pensive stirred beside him, catching the light and glimmering like quicksilver. He was finished and needed to leave, but couldn't make himself move. Instead he stared down at her tiny form. This was not the first time he'd been in this room, sat here with a young woman and a pensive. Last time she had wanted to show him her happiest moments, all of which from the age of seventeen until twenty six contained him, so many of the precious moments he too kept close to his heart. They had laughed and cried and then they simply held each other. She had been so brave, even through the pain she worried about him. She wasn't scared to die, not knowing she was loved, knowing who awaited her, just as they would combine to wait for him. She was scared that he wouldn't take care of himself, "Be happy, and go live a life filled with the laughter of a child." That had been her final wish for him. Harry still didn't know if he could do it, not without her.

Harry mentally shook himself, trying to push the thoughts away. He concentrated on the live girl in front of him. Her face was peaceful and cleared of all expression in sleep. She lost much of her beauty without her intensely blue eyes staring out at you, but it was replaced by a serenity that drew you too her as well. The peacefulness wasn't marred by the violence of her bruising either, rather it added to her over-all calm. Harry reached out to push a lock of honey coloured hair behind her ear.

_She's so much like Ginny. _The thought startled him a bit and he attempted to re-evaluate it. And for all the reasons that the two women were nothing alike, they had both over come so much, even as everyone around them tried to shelter and protect them – ultimately failing in both cases. Ginny had been brave, kind, smart and filled with joy despite life's hardships; this girl was all that too. Lying in the hospital bed, now alone in this world she called to Harry. She -- maybe even more than he -- was a testament to the cruelty of fate in its chosen survivors. 

The bed stirred slightly and with a sleepy blink Nigella Whiton was looking up at him. Her eyes were clouded with sleep as she struggled to sit up.

"You shouldn't move to much Ella, it'll only make you hurt more." Harry placed a gentle hand on her shoulder which stilled any further movement.

"Who are you?" She looked disoriented, but her eyes were clearing slowly. It was discomforting, the way she always looked directly into his eyes. "And where am I?" The after thought was almost funny, but Harry didn't feel like laughing.

"My name is Harry Potter, and you're in St. Mungo's." He tried to be upbeat and cause her as little reason to worry as possible; it didn't seem to be working.

"Where?" She was looking around, those intense eyes taking in the putrid green walls and soft creamy tiles.

"It's a hospital in London."

"Well I gathered it's an institution, but I've never heard of it." She had managed herself into a sitting position, gingerly arranging her body into a less painful position, there was no such thing as comfort at the moment.

"It's a private institution Ella."

"Do I know you?" She flushed instantly, "I'm terribly sorry. That was very rude of me. I just can't seem to place you, or why I'm in a hospital." She looked confused, nearing panic.

"Harry, it's time now." Kingsley came in from the hall, his deep voice and large presence left no room for question. There was an audible 'POP' and a Ministry Obliviator flashed Ella with his wand. The muggle blinked several times in succession before turning to stare at Harry and his partner.

"Where am I?"

"You are in a private medical facility Miss Whiton, my Name is Kingsley Shaklebolt, and this is Harry Potter." She smiled, slightly dazed.

"Yes, yes indeed. And why am here?" Her voice was soft and dreamy, a contrast from moments before when she had been full of eager, if edgy curiosity.

"You were brutally attacked Miss Whiton, I'm very sorry." Kingsley's voice was round and filled with compassion.

"Yes I can ascertain that, but where is my family?" The edge was starting to come back.

"I have the unfortunate job of telling you, they did not survive the attack, nor did your attacker."

"I – I'm sure I heard you wrong." She was looking between Harry and Kingsley, tears welling behind her eyes as the aches and stresses seemed to flow back into her.

"I'm so very sorry Miss Whiton."

The worst part about being an Auror could be summed up in two words: the hours. They were totally non-existent in a normal sense - no nine to five job - it was work every possible hour until you fall over from exhaustion until your case was solved. He and Kingsley had just spent the past four hours going through Ella's memories of the attack over and over until both he and Kingsley had it memorized. It would be burned into Harry's memory for the rest of his life, along side Cedric's and Sirius' deaths, and every battle he'd fought in the war. A hall of fame filled with grizzly, violent acts resided inside Harry's head.

They had also spent part of that time going through the rest of her memories, attempting to place any of the people in them with one of the attackers. After covering the last ten years of her life Kingsley had finally called it quits. Not before discovering the many sides, and many lives of Miss Nigella Whiton. Harry was baffled by what he saw, the complex arrangement of relationships which comprised her life. How she did it was any body's guess. Maybe it wasn't really all that complicated to live – he certainly hoped not.

He'd wanted to start analyzing her memories, see if anything jumped out at them as magical. Kingsley had insisted they go home, even insisting that Harry go ahead of him in the Floo queue. Standing in the Ministry atrium Harry had again been filled with memories of his own past lives. Some of the memories were beautiful, momentous achievements for his friends, and others were deeply sad. It was starting to feel like no place in the wizarding world was free from memories.

Their flat was especially memory filled. Harry hated coming back to its dark, empty feel, remembering when he came home it used to smell like cooking food and the space was filled by Ginny's laughter and a mixture of magical and muggle music. The place would always be _their_ flat -- never _his_.  Harry had wanted to rebuild Godric's Hollow, live on his ancestral land while surrounded by their collected family. He had intended for Remus to come live with them, take all of them away from Grimmauld Place.  In the end Ginny had felt there wasn't enough time, and her Healers wanted them close by. The place was a tribute to what Ginny could do with some money. It was a very manly sort of place, dark woods, black leather and bold greens and reds. The place always felt touched by Ginny -- as if she had just dusted recently. There were pictures everywhere, which happens when your wife's best friend is a photographer, documenting their life – mostly of her. He was never alone in the flat, all he had to do was glance at a surface and he had Ginny's face smiling back at him.

Right at the moment however, there was an actual, physical presence in the kitchen. From the horrible rendition of "Hard Day's Night" it had to be none other than Mrs. Hermione Granger-Weasley.

"Glad to see you've made yourself at home Hermione." The bushy haired little witch merely smiled, placing a pot of tea and a mixing bowl of stew on the table and gestured for him to sit. _Ron Weasley has indeed married his mother_. Harry tucked into the stew and tried not grin, Hermione didn't take being compared with her formidable mother-in-law as a compliment.

"Oh you're very welcome Mr. Potter – I'll just grab the money from the household jar and be on my way now." Hermione grinned as Harry winked at her and sat across from him with a creak. She frowned at the chair protest and poured out the tea.

"Thanks very much Mrs. Weasley, the stew's great. I hope there's enough for supper too?"

"Oh you!" Harry received a swat up-side the head, but was satisfied with the giggle which escaped his second oldest friend. In all the fifteen years Hermione had been married to Ron – not to mention the twenty odd years Harry had known her – Harry could count the times Hermione _giggled_ using one hand. Now blushing was another story, it seemed to be contagious if you spent too much time with the Weasley's. 

 Harry's response was to reach out and tug one of Hermione's errant curls, causing her to giggle a little more.

"I thought – correctly I might add – that you wouldn't have eaten anything, and since you ran out on us at dinner yesterday I figured you wouldn't have the energy to cook for yourself. You eat too much take-away as it is Harry, as an Auror you need to stay healthy and a properly balanced diet is part of –"

"I always knew there was a reason you were hailed as such a clever little witch at Hogwart's." Harry interrupted Hermione's common lecture to him about eating properly.

"Well they were also correct in their assessment of you too I see – brave, but not necessarily bright."

"Oy! I can't help the fact that you've managed to perfect the combination of Divinations and pure book knowledge! It must be a mother thing." Hermione just narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm sorry to have missed dinner by the way." Hermione waved her hand to show it didn't matter, her mouth full of tea.

"What kind of case pulled you in on your day off – must've been terribly important?"

How on earth did he begin to answer that question Harry wondered silently, trying in vain to come up with a decent but sugar coated version for his friend.

"That good huh?" It never ceased to amaze him the way Hermione could always read him like those damned books she loved so much! "Harry I have known you for twenty years – you're not that deep."

"There you bloody go again!"

"Are you going to tell me what happened or not?" He suddenly felt the good mood which had filled their kitchen evaporate. He suddenly felt like he'd been run over by a charging hippogriff. There would be no sugar coating – if all went to plan Hermione would hear the full account many more times.

"There was an attack on a muggle family last night." Hermione stopped puttering about – a plate crashing to the ground.

"No – you're not serious."

"It was eerie, too reminiscent of Voledemort for my taste. The family was tortured and then killed but they left the daughter alive. Then the used _Cruciatus_ on her and violated her. The others wanted to kill her as well but the one we assume was the ring leader stopped them." Harry couldn't keep his disgust from punctuating every word.

"That's – My God I can't even – How's the girl?"

"I wouldn't know. Kingsley had her released from St.Mungo's this afternoon; at which point they Obliviated her." Harry didn't know why he felt the Oblivation was wrong. They Obliviated thousands of muggles during the Voldemort years but this one felt like such a violation. Harry couldn't imagine what his life would've been like if he were to still believe his parents died in a car crash.

"That's all good and well but what about-"

"I have a pensive full of her memories locked in my desk."

"You didn't!"

"There really was no other way. The Healer wouldn't allow us to talk to her much at the scene and felt the entire trauma would be too much for her to relive. Muggles aren't like us Hermione – you should know that – they're not as strong."

"Now that's the kind of belief which led to Voldemort Harry. You'd be surprised at how much the human – muggle or magical – can withstand in terms of trauma. In fact you're living breathing proof! Not to mention that using Occulemency is walking a very fine ethical line." The bushy haired witch had a pinched look upon her face.

Harry was struck by how little Hermione had changed in the twenty odd years he'd known her. Even at twenty-nine years of age her hair was still as bushy and unmanageable as ever and she was still a stickler about rules – no matter how many times she'd participated in breaking them. She looked at him with disapproval and a heavy does of affection in her brandy-brown eyes and mulish expression. Time and a happy marriage had not mellowed his friend's temper or her thirst for knowledge although two children had softened her generously feminine figure.

"Harry have you heard a word of what I just said?" One the topic of mulish …

"Yes Hermione I'm aware that Occulmency is frowned upon in your department and that I shouldn't technically use it without my witnesses consent but you'll have a very strong case as to why I did use it that no judge will throw out. And I really didn't have any other options." The exhaustion was setting in and Harry really had no desire to fight with Hermione.

"I suppose you didn't," Hermione sighed heavily and returned to tidying the kitchen.

Ginny had decorated the room as well and a bit tongue-in-cheek at that. On the front of the painted wood cupboards were large, black, block letters announcing the contents behind each door. It was endearingly sad to know that the joke was Ginny's attempt … he really didn't want to wander down that path again today.

"Hermione – I have a favour to ask of you."

"Mhmm," she was absently rummaging through his ice box and checking expiry dates.

"I know you were planning on taking some time off from work about now –" Harry's hesitant question was cut off briskly.

"Well there won't be much point in that now – will there?" Hermione sounded a bit off and Harry really didn't know. As far as he knew Ron and Hermione had been planning to take the next two months off to spend with each other and to reconnect as a family. Ron was away so often with the Cannons during the season and when Ron was home Hermione was usually working or involved with her many 'projects'. Harry knew that they desperately needed some time together and he wished – for the thousandth time- that he had enough time to take the boys off their hands occasionally.

"Why Hermione? Please don't let this case ruin you're time together." Harry stopped at Hermione's flabbergast look.

"Ron hasn't told you yet?"

"Apparently not – we didn't have much of a chance to talk last night as you may remember."

"Good point." Why Hermione was cleaning his kitchen the muggle way was beginning to baffle him as it became more and more apparent that was exactly what she planned to do. "He's been asked to play for England." Although Ron's wife looked immensely proud, it didn't quite hide the hurt look haunting her eyes.

"Wow," Harry reached for something properly congratulatory to say without rubbing salt in Hermione's face. "Ron must be beside himself right now. It's taken them bloody long enough to ask him too!"

"Yes, well it means he'll be training and traveling with them for the next two years – in fact he left for Argentina this morning." Harry stood, a smile of mixed emotions lighting his face. Ron did deserve to play for England, but Hermione also deserved a break – some time with her family. He wrapped her in a tight – slightly consolatory – hug.

"He won't be able to play for much longer you know – not at that level." Hermione sighed deeply.

"I know which is why I sent him off this morning happy as a clam. He said the boys and I should go down and visit him. I just don't know if little Fabian is up to it – it's such a long port-key. He's only a year old – almost a year and a half actually, in may actually," Hermione shook her head vigorously as though to clear it "doesn't matter. I just don't know Harry," she finished lamely.

"You could always fly the muggle way, but I know you just want him here for once." Harry smiled ironically at his friend.

"Oh I know – enough! I'm thrilled for Ron of course. It's absolutely brilliant – his dream has finally come true." Her show of joy was less than convincing, but Harry let it drop as she asked, "So what's this favour you wanted to ask me?"

"Oh right, I want you to get on board this case with me."

"You know that's not exactly how it works Harry."

"How do I guarantee that you'll be involved? I want us to pull every string we can find – I need you on this case Hermione." She narrowed her eyes at him shrewdly.

"Harry James Potter you've been a successful Auror without any help from me for the past ten years. What's the difference with this case?" Harry thought there was a slight frown on her face that had nothing to do with suspicion and everything to do with his success, but he quickly pushed any thoughts about Hermione's conceit out of his head. He opted instead for flattery.

"You know more about the former Death Eaters and their families than Snape and Moody combined Hermione." She flushed a little, pride gleaming in her brown eyes.

"And you think this was Death Eater related?"

"Probably not the original Death Eaters – we both know they're all in Azkaban. Maybe it's some sort of faction group, or even copy cats. It would have to be someone familiar with their methods of torture."  Harry shuddered, "The things they did to that poor girl Hermione, things that would make you ill." She did indeed look slightly green – being entirely too familiar with what Death Eaters had been known to do to attractive muggle girls for sport.

"There's a 'but' coming, I can feel it."

"It just doesn't feel right, there's … there's something different about this case. It feels very personal – too personal – to be a random act of anti-muggle behaviour. There was too much emotion at the scene, too much magic. It was as though someone lost control over their magic – it has happened to me sometimes when my emotions are running high. Say like when I'm in a towering rage or something."

"I am aware of your lack of control Harry." Hermione's tone was entirely too snarky, little miss know-it-all was back with a vengeance. He managed a humourless smile for her. It had been rough – to say the least- after Ginny's death. Harry's moods had swung up and down worse than they had even when he was a teenager. He had come very close to hurting many of his friends, Hermione included.

"So you think the trace amounts of magic left at the scene are enough to go on?" Hermione looked sceptical, but willing – and that was all Harry needed.

"I'm simply playing a hunch on that one. Right now we're going to trace the wands and try to get any sort of description on that front. Then we'll check the possible wand owners against her memories – if this isn't a random attack someone's bound to pop up."

"Sounds tediously slow."

"Kingsley is infinitely patient." Hermione laughed.

"And you're not."

"That isn't fair!" Harry tried half-heartedly to defend himself, "I can be patient!"

"You've never been patient Harry – you were sorted into Gryffindor after all." They were leaning against the counter and Harry realised – belatedly – that his trousers were soaked where they had any contact with the sink. Frowning he muttered a drying charm, which proceeded to burn his leg a bit. He swore colourfully. Hermione rolled her eyes at him, having long given up trying to curtail his language – she'd been much more successful with Ron, but then he had so much more to lose.

"Shall we sit then?" Harry silently nodded his consent.

"You've been spending too much time with Zabini and the other Slytherins in your office Hermione. You're losing your house pride!" He glared at her with false offence.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing! I'm every bit the Gryffindor you are – save that I'm not a direct descendant. And I believe I do an admirable job of defending our house. Really! I was simply pointing out that patience is not your specialty, and that you'd be much more apt to be proactive in this investigation. Unless of course _you_ are ashamed of being a Gryffindor?" She arched an eye-brow at him with an un-Hermione-like elegance possessing an uncanny resemblance to Hogwart's Potion Master and most hated Deputy-Headmaster.

"You also spend more time than is healthy with Snape. Oh gods – an unholy combination of Molly Weasley and Severus Snape! What is the world coming to?" Harry shuddered dramatically.

"Oh do be quiet Harry. I'm not in any way similar to either of the afore-mentioned peoples – I'll have you know I am entirely my own person." Her pert little nose stuck straight in the air, Hermione let out an indignant huff.

After leaving Hogwart's, Hermione had maintained a close relationship with their former Head of House and the school in general. She was also a prominent and out-spoken member of the Board of Directors, where she was chairwitch of the muggle parents adjustment committee. Only Minerva McGonagall worked as staunchly as Hermione did for the constant improvement of the school curriculum and institute in general. Harry often mused that she did it as a constant reminder of where she came from, a desire to help other over-come similar obstacles, and most of all to remember. Hogwart's had been the best of times, during the worst of times – for all of them. It also kept her busy, and her thoughts away from Ron's constant absences. Harry often forgot he wasn't the only person with a large hole in his life due to Ginny's death. Hermione had found and lost her only female friend in Ginny.

Harry and Ron would always be best mates; there was never any doubt in that. And although the change from best mates to lovers had been fulfilling for Ron and Hermione it had also changed the dynamics. Harry would always love them both dearly and vice versa but they became a unit separate from him. Gone were the days of 'Hogwart's Golden Trio' they were left with Ron&Hermione and Harry. Until Ginny had come along. After that, he and Ron had often gone and done their won thing while Hermione and Ginny engaged in the many secret activities girls did when they were together. Now that Ginny was gone Hermione was often left hanging, Ron was constantly away, Harry was too busy either working or – he thought ruefully – wallowing in self pity. Hermione was never excluded from activities when Ron _was_ in town, but she needed friends for when they weren't together. That was the probable reason for Hermione's blossoming friendship with Blaise Zabini. While Harry couldn't logically begrudge Hermione her right to friendships – he did anyway.

"Hello Harry – are you in there?" Harry blinked quickly when Hermione's voice and her hand waving in his face registered. "That's the second time you've spaced out on me Harry."

"Sorry, I guess I was thinking."

"You guess or you were?"

"I was thinking. Is that really so hard to believe?" He glanced at her from across the table. She looked very young sitting there with her feet curled under her bum, head leaning back against the chair.

"I didn't think you made a habit of it," she winked. Harry merely snorted at her through his nose derisively. "Were your thoughts about work?"

"They were about you, Ron, us – as the 'Golden Trio' and … Ginny." He let his train of thought die off, swallowing a lump which had lodged itself painfully in his throat.

"Yes?" His friend peered at him, not pushing him any farther. She had learned her lesson the hard way a year ago. The knot lossed and Harry tried again to articulate his feelings to the liquidly brown eyes across from him.

"Being grown-up isn't all it's cracked up to be. Even with Voldemort gone, having my dream job, a nice house and an official Weasley … there's so much missing from my life." Unable to hold her eye any longer he discovered am intensely interesting hang-nail on his thumb.

"Oh I don't know about that Harry. I think you're judging happiness too harshly. We've all got our lives, people who love us, lovely homes, rewarding jobs – Ron and I have two lovely sons who are your God-sons …" she trailed off as well. For a long moment there was silence in the kitchen.

Harry found his voice first.

"But is that what happiness is? Is what you feel in your heart right now the way you always imagined happiness? Is this the kind of life you always dreamed you'd have?" He waited for her answer, genuinely interested in what Hermione's response would be. As kids they had never pondered these questions, he had always been too pre-occupied with his own sense of guilt and pain. All of them had simply accepted the hardships life dealt them – reach railing silently and in their own way. Now, Hermione's life appeared to have everything necessary for happiness, a loving marriage, healthy children, financial security. But he really wondered if that automatically made a person happy?

"Yes of course I'm happy Harry." Her answer seemed so flippant after such a long and very pregnant pause. "Why would you ask such a question?"

He wasn't sure of how to answer 'why'. But he could at least explain himself to her.

"When I was performing Occulmency on Nigella Whiton, I was originally looking for just her traumatic experiences. I was shocked by what I saw Hermione; for such a very young woman she was filled with pain. Some of her pain was physical, but so much more was emotional, and it was all sitting there in her head, for me to trudge through. The interesting part was how close to the surface the pain was – barely contained and easily accessible. It was as though she relived those memories often – frequently … I don't even know what I'm say." He let out a deep and frustrated sigh.

"Well I'm no psychologist Harry, but I'm sure that a recently suffered trauma is likely to bring back other, similar experiences." Hermione replied carefully, logically, and as always considering things he'd missed.

"I guess," Harry knew it was a lame response but he didn't think the memories were returning due to trauma. It felt to Harry that she _enjoyed_ remembering these events. They didn't take on the forms of nightmares; they weren't deep enough to be suppressed. That was just it - they weren't suppressed at all.

"What did you see Harry?"

"Everything."

"Like what?"

"Let's just say if it was you instead of Nigella Whiton Ron and I would be in Azkaban." Harry's response was properly dark.

"Death Eater copy-cats wouldn't be anything new to this girl then?"

"Not even close."

Hermione was shocked speechless – quite a feat.

"I thought she was from an affluent muggle family? I mean I've never heard of the Whiton's but Mum's not one for the society columns."

"They are – extremely well off from what I can tell."

"Then what could she have experienced that would be worse than war – the kind of war we lived through?" Hermione was obviously sceptical.

"There are worse things."

"Worse than watching your friends, family – the people you care about – die in front of you? Worse than losing your family members in random, senseless acts of violence so some maniac can try to rule the world?"

"She's seen her family die too Hermione, there are no Whitons left but her. Her sister-in-law was pregnant too. But there are worse violations than fighting someone else's prejudices." Even to his own ears, Harry sounded pompous – as though he knew something of Nigella Whiton's pain. Hermione seemed to concede that point, but was too stubborn to admit it.

"You're defending her Harry." The observation seemed to come out of no where.

"I am not; I'm simply trying to prove a point." He didn't know why the thought made him angry. He _was_ defending her, and he couldn't really fathom why.

"Yes you are," Hermione wasn't squinting, or looking at him shrewdly but her visage said she could see through him – clear as day.

"Fine, I'm defending her – what's it to you." He shoved back from the table arms crossed in defiance.

"There's no reason to make a fuss about it Harry. I was simply pointing out to you that you were defending this girl – a stranger I might add – defending her emotions. That seems a bit odd." Hermione pushed a few errant strands of frizz away from her face, frowning slightly at its disobedience. When she looked back at Harry her brown eyes held his gaze, brown burned into green and Harry began to wonder what she saw in his eyes. He was desperate to show her there was nothing in his eyes, trying to keep them blank but the battle must've shown quite clearly and given him away. Harry broke the gaze first.

"She made me feel something Hermione. I felt something other than anger, other than heart-broken. For the first time in years I felt compassion, but it was as though every emotion I've ever had flooded back to me while I was in her presence. I could feel again without the constant guilt hanging over me. I haven't felt that way since before Cedric died. I haven't done much but feel guilty for - first for hurting the people I loved and second for not being as strong as everyone needed to be. After the war I concentrated on feeling for those who needed me, Ginny, my friends and family. Since then I …"

"Haven't felt anything." Hermione finished for him. Harry nodded curtly.

"I didn't want to Obliviate her. I wanted to talk to her, ask her how she manages. I wanted to explain everything to her and help her get through it … I want to help her understand. I want to understand her. How can she be so brave? She's so strong Hermione – how can any human be so strong?" Harry looked up at Hermione, his hands twined in his hair as he grasped to keep himself grounded.

"So are you Harry – so are you." Her smile was small and rueful. "I've often wanted to ask you the same questions but I never had the guts to actually know the answer."

"Why not?"

"It would show me just how truly inadequate I am. I don't like being bested by anyone Harry – not even you." Her normally superior tone was gone, replaced by something he never thought Hermione would concede – defeat.

"You're not inadequate."

"You are very brave."

"But neither of us feels that way."

"No." She sighed and Harry realised that it was something he'd become accustomed to. She often sighed – in frustration, exasperation and even longing – he'd never heard her sigh in defeat before.

"I don't want to feel anymore. I don't want to suffer from guilt or anger – I don't even want to be happy anymore, not really."

"You do want to be happy Harry; you're just not sure how to go about it." Her answer surprised him. Why Hermione hadn't been sorted into Ravenclaw would always be a mystery to Harry. She was exceptionally brave and so strong – but she was wise beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Behind her cloud of bushy hair and superior expression were very wise eyes. On first glance – Ron had once said – they may look like plain brown eyes but on closer inspection one found a depth and understanding worth drowning in. And Hermione had said he had the emotional range of a teaspoon!

"She would want you to be happy."

Hermione was of course, right. Ginny would want him to be happy. All she had ever wanted was for him to be happy. But had she thought about that before jumping in front of a hex meant for him? How did she expect him to be happy without her? The happiest moments of his life had been discovered in her arms, basking in the light she brought to life – such a short life.

"I'm not sure I can pull it off without her." The tears were welling in his eyes, dangerously close to spilling over and no matter how much her tried, his voice sounded chocked. He was obviously exhausted and his emotions were gaining the upper hand.

"You didn't even know she existed before seventh year. You were happy before then," Hermione pointed out.

"Was I? I don't really know that I was happy then. And I planned on spending the rest of my life making up to her for my obliviousness. Bellatrix robbed me of my happiness forever that night – something she tried to do at the Department of Mysteries but that night she succeeded."

"And she paid with her life as well Harry." The nervous look on Hermione's face as she answered grounded him. _You don't want to hurt her mate. She didn't kill Sirius or Ginny – Bellatrix did that – not Hermione._

"You are in control of your life – your destiny – now. There is nothing holding back your happiness any more, only your guilt. You are holding your self back Harry."  Her unspoken words rang in his ears; _you made it through – you are alive! Live the life those who gave their own would be proud of._

Somewhere in the conversation Hermione had started to cry, silent tears rolled down her cheeks and darkening her eyes to near black. The large drops dripped off her chin and the end of her nose.

"I think that lying in that hospital bed today I met someone braver than me, someone braver than you or Neville or even Snape. We had choices and we made them with clear consciences. Nigella Whiton never had a choice, but she will continue just the same way we have." He gazed at Hermione and saw her face twist into a small, warm smile but filled with regrets and guilt all the same. And she wiped her eyes and face clear of the tears, still smiling.

"We will always have each other," she echoed his thoughts out loud.

"Yes we will." Harry embraced Hermione for the second time that evening, crouched on his knees and arms wrapped around her still slender waist. Her coarse hair lay under his cheek, itching but smelling clean. "But I wonder, what did this muggle do that we didn't? How does she continue on happily while I waste away in misery?" In answer Hermione squeezed him tighter, the only way she knew to answer. Harry didn't know either but he would ask until the answer became clear.

"I have to go now and collect the boys from Molly." Her voice was muffled into his hair and she made no move to leave.

"Yes you do," Harry released her and the both reluctantly moved around the kitchen.

"There should be enough stew in the croc for supper," Hermione called from next to the hall tree. Harry smiled, enjoying the fact that his friends felt so at home in his home – something he'd never really experienced before. He felt at home at the Burrow, Ron and Hermione's new house Marian Cottage. He was happy that they felt the same way.

"I'm sure there is."

Cloak secure and tattered Gryffindor scarf wrapped tightly, Hermione made her way towards the fire place. Harry walked with her and nearly burst out laughing. Hermione's feet which this time of year were often clad in sensible Welly's, were instead covered in duck boots – actual duck boots. Her boots had yellow beaks and black eyes and made quacking noises every other step!

"Don't even start with the boots Harry – just don't." He couldn't hide the smile nor could Hermione, though her efforts in that regard were valiant.

"Good bye Hermione – give my God-sons hugs on my behalf."

"I will and do try to be there for _all_ of this Sunday's dinner. Charlie and his new girlfriend are visiting from Romania – I'm told she's Croatian and very beautiful."

"Wouldn't want to miss the awkward moment when Molly asks if they plan to get married now would I?" Harry arched his brows and frowned a bit in amusement.

"Harry – you're terrible, really!" But Hermione could help but laugh as she said the words. Taking some floo powder from the jar while Harry stoked the fire Hermione stepped in and looked ready to go. She stopped and looked at him suddenly.

"You're attracted to her."

"Huh?"

"That was articulate Harry – the muggle girl, you're attracted to her." Her eyes were piercing into him, watching him for any sort of shifty behaviour.

"I am not Hermione! She's twenty-five years old and a witness in one of my cases."

"That doesn't stop you from being attracted." She had a point, but he was _not_ attracted to her.

"Well I'm not."

"Just be careful Harry – it's been a long time since, well you know." He rolled his eyes at her. _Yes do point out that I haven't been shagged in almost three years Hermione._

"It won't be a problem."

"If you're sure," Harry didn't even grace her with an answer to that. He was sure, and she should know it. Hermione threw the floo powder down and called clearly

"The Burrow!" In a flash she was gone, leaving Harry alone in his flat.

Alone in his silent, lonely flat, a flat which was once filled with laughter, with life. Harry knew that there was nothing he wouldn't sacrifice for Ginny to be alive still, alive and with him in this flat, laughing and making love. He would do anything to not feel the emptiness in the chambers of his heart. He turned to the mantle and pulled a picture frame off it. It was of Ginny from her twenty-first birthday. It was also the best photograph Colin had ever taken. The day had been casually spent by the pond, filled with sun and laughter. Ginny sat on the dock, unaware of the camera as she was too caught up watching Fred, George and Harry gang up on Ron, Neville and Bill during a water fight – no magic allowed! She was laughing, her hair gleaming copper in the sun and her eyes shinning brighter still with mirth. Her body was still flushed and full of life – the hex had not yet started to drain her youth. She looked like a flame and he was drawn to her, to this photograph always - as a moth would be.  In this photograph the viewer caught a glimpse of the real Ginny – the little girl she tried so hard to hide. The part of herself she swore Tom had driven out of her – that little girl had surfaced much more frequently as Ginny began to realize her time was coming to a close. Never frightened; just happy to be alive and equally happy to let go of a well lived life.

He missed her, every day and with every breath he took, Harry missed the joy she had brought into his life. In his darkest and weakest moments she had been his strength, and he was floundering through life without her. No one else notice but himself that in the maze of life, while he had a map, he lacked a compass.


End file.
